My first miscarriage was Thanksgiving weekend, 2011. Such joy was leading up to that weekend. My brother and sister, and their respective families had traveled in from out-of-town to celebrate not only the holiday but a surprise 40th wedding anniversary party we siblings were throwing for my parents. The plan was to tell my parents of our news at the party. It would be their seventh grandchild, our firstborn.
But the bleeding started the night before, and both my husband and I thought it was better not to share quite yet. Even if it was just spotting, we decided to err on the side of caution and kept quiet.
Over the next 24 hours, the bleeding worsened, along with the cramping, and it became evident we needed to share our news. And so, in the same breath, my husband explained how I was pregnant, but losing my baby. How I was with child, but would soon be without. And an eeriness filled the house. In the next minutes, what unfolded was like a scene from an awful and lonely funeral. And I was the open casket. Each family member, my brother, sister, grandmother, mother and father came to me with their condolences, squeezing my limp body tight, saying their farewells, all the while awkwardly dancing around my broken bones. And I wept, head down, the blood now pooling beneath me. I left a stain on that chair.
The cramping was unbearable at this point, so we headed home for the rest of the holiday weekend. Within the hour, regular contractions started, continuing for the next several hours. And in those hours, my sweet Cordelia left me.
Three months later, in the spring of 2012, I found myself pregnant again, wondering constantly when or if I’d begin to see blood. Barely any excitement was present as the fresh innocence and anticipation of being with child was abruptly taken from me just months prior. And yet, I still clung to this baby with a glimmer of hope. Praying this next child would be delivered from me, alive and screaming, into my arms many months from the present. So I carried on day by day until one evening three months into my pregnancy, when that familiar gush of blood, warm and gentle, left me. I knew in that moment. I remembered. This was how it all began the last time. I fell to my knees and wept, counting down the hours I had until I would lose this second child of mine. And a day later, my Levon said goodbye.
It took ten months to become pregnant a third time. Some of those months I needed. Not trying to get pregnant. I didn’t want to face the possibility of another miscarriage, another loss. My husband and I both needed room. And when I did find myself pregnant in the winter of 2013, I cried. When you lose both babies you were previously pregnant with, things seem pretty grim. Even when finding out the incredible and miraculous news that a child is growing within you. So instead of celebrating, picturing and preparing for that child, you fear. And you worry. And you walk on a million pieces of tiny broken egg shells, day in and day out.
Though, a glimmer of hope remained, woven deep among the hurt and the pain. And my prayers remained mighty and often. LORD, let this babe come to my arms.
This third pregnancy I opted to receive progesterone treatments. First vaginal suppositories, then in my second trimester I began with shots, twice a week in my upper thigh, rotating between my left and right. And they hurt like a wasp’s great sting. Sometimes the pain and swelling would last until the next treatment and then begin all over again. I had blood work done weekly, tracking numbers and levels, and daily held on to the prayers of others and myself that this babe would continue to stay, and to grow, deep inside my womb.
And she did. I’m not sure if I ever let go of the fear, or rather if the fear ever let go of me, but the weeks progressed and my belly grew. Quite large. A day shy of 42 weeks, I birthed the most beautiful baby girl anyone ever set eyes on. And into my arms she came, my beamish girl. Callooh, callay! And I sang with the angels and rejoice still at this great gift, my sweet Birdie. My third child, our firstborn.
Fifteen months after giving birth to my daughter, I became pregnant for the fourth time. Not knowing what would happen with any future pregnancies, given my past, my husband and I were elated to be pregnant once again, and sooner rather than later. Fear was still with me. I believe it will always accompany me and my pregnancies, but it is a fear that does not overcome, rather one that is alongside. Inevitable. Like a limp from a broken leg or an itch from a fresh mosquito bite. It will be with me.
But we had greater hope this pregnancy that things could progress just like the last, especially with the help of progesterone. It couldn’t hurt, we thought. So we did things exactly as we did the last. I began with suppositories and blood work weekly. My levels looked good. They doubled, tripled, just as they should, and two ultrasounds in, things were looking optimistic. A tiny baby was growing and flourishing deep within my womb.
And from day-to-day, as the months passed, things were far from in our control. They never were. They never are, but I tend to think that those who have never lost a baby think somehow they did something right. That their bodies prevailed, healthily and victoriously. Whereas I’ve heard carrying a baby to full term compared more to winning the lottery. Defying all odds. And in reality, it was nothing you or I did or didn’t do. We just lucked out. And tangibly, it isn’t medicine or faith or health or ancestry that will guarantee a healthy child, it’s simply, but ever so complex, the luck of the draw.
At my second ultrasound, though growth was made and life was evident, the technician was unable to detect a heartbeat and thus ordered a follow-up scan. With the frequent appointments, blood work and pre-natal visits, there was a mix up as to where I was having the scan done, and as fate would have it, my husband arrived at a different hospital than me. I waited for him, as he waited for me. Each wondering where the other was. And finally, when the time came and I was told I could wait no longer, they led me to a locker room of sorts and handed me a huge bed sheet with what looked like shoestrings to tie shut. It covered parts of me. And then I was corralled to another room, a small dark room, lit only by the glow of the ultrasound machine.
I don’t recall the technician even telling me her name, but within seconds, she had helped herself to taking what felt like hundreds of pictures of my body, with that uncomfortable, plastic wand, far up in my insides. And it was clear from her silence. You see, when there’s life, there is excitement, joy and expression. But when stillness is seen, on that big and glowing screen, it shows on everyone’s face in the room. Without a word needing to be said, I knew.
And even though I knew, it was hospital regulation that I hear it officially from the radiologist. So I waited. And waited. And after an hour alone, sitting and staring at that screen, still lit with the image of my tiny, curled baby, the radiologist tapped at the door. Yes, come in. Yes, I’m still awkwardly waiting on the exam bed dressed with stirrups and crinkled tissue paper, wet from the lubrication the tech doused me and that plastic wand with. “Your baby is unviable,” she tells me. And then she goes on with telling me my options. The same two options I’d heard twice before. I could wait for the blood and for the miscarriage and pass this baby on my own, or I could opt to be sedated and have a doctor use metal tools to suction and scrape out my insides, stripping me of all traces of my unborn child.
I chose the first option, just like the other two times. I would be at home when my baby chose to leave me.
And she did on Mother’s Day, 2015. Two and a half weeks after the ultrasound when I learned that she was no longer viable, or growing, yet still clinging on tight within me. Those two weeks were long. And my prayer was frequent: please leave me sooner than later. Sooner because I wanted to avoid the scraping and suction at all cost. To me, that would be far more scarring than waiting those long days, not knowing when the bleeding would start. These two weeks waiting were healing, too. My other two miscarriages happened fast. Blood, cramps, contractions, loss. At least this time, I had weeks to process what would unfold, and this helped, if only the slightest bit. Of course, at the first sight of blood, after 13 weeks of a swelling belly, morning sickness all day, and so much hope for a second born, I wept. It was finally happening. There wasn’t a mistake. The scan was right and my baby was leaving me.
We named her Lake, our fourth child, sister to Cordelia, Levon and our sweet Birdie.
SASH for Miscarriage 